Meet You In The Morning
by Servant of Fire
Summary: AU Hiatus, written for writer's block. The Hiatus entangles Sherlock in the events leading up to London's Armageddon. After he solves a case that saves many London lives, he wakes up with amnesia in a hospital in Jerusalem, being cared for by a certain Army Doctor he doesn't know how well he knows, and loves...(named for an old hymn of the same title)


**Meet You In The Morning~**

** For the Faith that shall be my Eyes~**

**For John Watson: Because writing is healing for both of us.**

**And for Arthur Conan Doyle,To whom these characters by all rights ultimately belong,(although the buying rights belong to Mr. Moffat, and Mr. Gatiss, who have done them justice, in all due respects :)**

**with the intent of giving Sherlock Holmes the "serious" story that you might have wanted. **

**Thank you for his existence in our world.**

His life had ended with a roof top. He had "died" and gone to Moriarty's hell. And the Circles had kept spiraling downward. The farther he had wandered into that web, the darker it got. Soon it was no longer only about stopping a criminal network. Quickly it had evolved into ending the Final War.

He's not awake yet. Can't bring himself to. That War has totally destroyed the world he knew. There was a deluge, not caused by God (Who had promised to never do so again), but caused by men, and it was called the "Scarlet Deluge" because they had drowned the earth in each other's blood. He had fought bravely. He doesn't know that yet. He is in the dark, a brilliant mind snuffed out like a candle. Comatose. If he ever wakes he will be received with a hero's welcome. This time he will get what he deserves. This time the refugees of London (the City paid greatly for what it did to Sherlock Holmes. His blood was just the very first drop in a never-ending downpour upon their sidewalks. Those who had survived had been evacuated thus) could see that he had used his amazing science for their good. As a matter of shocking fact, NO ONE would have survived that final fight, if he hadn't smuggled his way back into his City, and solved the master crimes all the way to the heart of the Lion's Den, as the mercenaries called it. He had tried to destroy it with himself inside. He might have tried to turn them over to armies, might have tried to have been a "hero" and gotten justice for himself that he so rightly deserved... Had they not made one final threat to that man that he had loved with all his heart and soul. His brother.

He doesn't remember how he broke the switch keeping the swollen, sick-bellied Thames at bay. Doesn't remember how he surrendered to the river's veins, drowning the Lion's Den, all in the name of that one man.

He has no idea that said man had discovered he was alive, and what he had done, at the very last hour. Doesn't know that a fully returned love saved him, just in the nick of time.

Doesn't know that said man swan-dived into London turned Atlantis and pulled him out, swimming to the tumultuous surface, just as buildings along the "Osiris Dam" began to swell and burst like hearts too full of earth's sorrow.

John Watson.

He never hoped to see him again.

But it is morning now. And he wakes up.

Greeted by a smile, and eyes warm as sunlight with compassion, and hair like golden streams of dawn, ruffled from a lack of sleep, watching all night for many nights to see him well again.

Sherlock doesn't know this kind faced man. Oh, but he should...

Silver-green eyes sweep over the man leaning over his bed, in rapid deduction as he wakes himself up. Without fully formed thoughts, he pieces together what he observes about this man.

He is wearing a soldier's uniform, with a medic cross on the sleeve. Army doctor. Seasoned veteran too, he can tell this by his bearing, by his hands, by the worn soles of his boots, (he was never reissued more, no these have seen other wars). What were those wars for? He didn't remember that now. He couldn't even remember the name of this man that he had loved like a brother more than life itself, and that he had over and over and over willingly sacrificed himself for to keep said name from being discovered by the wrong people. The soldier knew him though, laid a hand on his brow.

"Good morning, Sherlock!" he called, as if Sherlock were thousands of miles away.

Sherlock tried to sit up, "Nnnnnononononononono!" the soldier clucked almost pigeon like. "Lie still." It was a clipped command, but not as harsh as it was intended to sound. For whatever reason ,that Sherlock couldn't even begin to compute, this man seemed to almost _adore _him, that was being evidenced by the look in his eyes, and the child-like smile on his face, and the gentleness with which he kept touching his face,as if he half expected it to disappear.

"I've...missed you." said John, with a contended little laugh, as if now everything was REALLY going to be ok.

* * *

><p>Everything turns into a blur for the world's only, recently dredged up from the floods consulting detective after that. Days may well be years or moments; he doesn't know. He doesn't even know his name. He's wearing a hospital gown, and he doesn't like it ,the fabric being kind of chilly, and he feels exposed. His head is swimming; his ears are ringing loudly most of the time. His already amazing senses are turned up WAY too high for their own good now. When he's lucid, he can hear every conversation, sense every smell, sight, change in scene...He's in a hospital somewhere in the Middle East, though he's not sure where. He's never lucid for long, after colorful bursts of his brilliant mind echo back into reality, he is left with a haze like when he crashed from highs, back in the days that he was an addict.<p>

The Army Doctor is always there, in the lucid moments, and in the blurred vision ones. Doing everything from changing his IV drip, to spooning food in his face.

"Oi , no! You need to eat! At least 3 mouthfuls of Jello; it will do the opposite of kill you!" he heard him gasp, utterly exasperated, at some given moment.

At another he is dozing off, longing for blackness (because that is what he knows better), when the gentle doctor is waking him up by pulling him into more comfortable clothes, a pair of grey jogging pants, and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. He moans a protest, and tries to bat his hands away. Feels the strong young doctor catch his hands mid swing, and clutch them fondly, rubbing warmth back into his fingers.

" Don't have to be grateful, but I am doing you a favor! You're bloody well going to get some sunlight ,Sherlock, you'll never get better if you don't!"

Sherlock. So that's what people call him.

He feels the young doctor lift him up...Feels like he doesn't weigh a lot anymore. He feels him put him in a wheelchair, and buckle him in. It's like being a baby again, but rather than being cared for by a mum or a dad, he's being cared for by a gentle soldier that he feels should be his brother. He starts to figure that is most likely the reason why the man is being so gentle. Feels him kiss him in the center of his hair, that he washed this morning for him. Yes, most definitely a very close relative, most likely a brother. People's doctors don't generally wash their hair, and kiss the top of their head when they are a good patient. An older brother? Judging by the authoritative tone, that is only half as serious as it sounds, then yes, he is most likely the elder brother .

He's talking softly too him now, as he wheels him through sleepy hallways to where there is warm sun, and a smell like trees...Olives, figs, palms...He can smell things like pomegranates too, and all sorts of lilies, and dates...Many , many plants, an oasis in the desert.

He's suddenly on a porch of sorts, in a garden, overlooking a City. Although Sherlock's never been here before, he instantly knows where he is. It's like he has come home.

Jerusalem.

And now that he's here, he's greeted by a host of familiar faces. He misplaces them, or maybe he doesn't.

"Oh, Sherlock dear! It's lovely to see you out and about!" cries a kindly old woman he thinks is probably his mother, though it is really Mrs. Hudson, who was his landlady before London was destroyed by war.

Somehow Jerusalem has survived, and all the people of the earth are making it their Haven.

"Oi, really! Soon hopefully you'll be up for working again, I've got LOADS of missing person's cases for you to solve!" cries a grey haired man Sherlock thinks is probably his uncle. It's really Greg Lestrade, his old Detective Inspector/ sort of boss.

A young girlish woman is smiling ear to ear, looking rather nervous,

"And when you're not busy...I've got loads of work to do in the lab too. This war has given me a lot of business! Oh, sorry! See...this is why you say I shouldn't make jokes ,isn't it?"

Sherlock thinks this is probably his little sister, though it is actually Molly Hooper.

Another man in a suit, carrying an umbrella , though the sun is shining bright, steps out from under a heavy fronded palm tree, a quizzical look on his face, eyeing Sherlock.

Oh, this is definitely his eldest brother, he would know him anywhere. In fact, seeing him is causing him to somewhat gather his bearings...He thinks he may actually be on the cusp of remembering things...of clarity.

"Sherlock won't be working again until Doctor Watson has given him a clean bill of health, and until we have given him a proper awards ceremony, to show our gratitude for his sleuthing skills, especially his gallantry in the Lion's Den.

"Mmmm...Such big words, Mycroft. Trying to impress us? "

Everybody looks stunned. This is the first time they have heard Sherlock's voice, (with the exception of Mycroft, who worked with him a lot during Hiatus), since that last phone call the day that he "died"...

" I mean them though, brother mine." Mycroft grins from ear to ear, glad to hear one of his snarky retorts again.

John is near tears, and kneels in front of him. "...Are you...are you starting to remember everything then? Do you know us?"

Sherlock looks around. "Mrs. Hudson..." he says to begin with.

"Yes, dear!"

"Molly."

She laughs delighted, and nods fiercely.

"... Gavin...Lestrade?"

"That's close enough, mate!" the Inspector laughs.

"The Queen of England." he says, and Mycroft gasps irritably, as everyone rolls with laughter.

"John..." he says ,and his voice grows quiet.

He wants to say he's sorry, but all is forgiven now. John takes his face in his hands, and smiles at him, smiles like Sherlock has never seen him smile before. Truly happy and at peace, not recovering from any wars, like when he knew him, not angry and betrayed and confused like he expected. At peace...

It was morning, they were all together, in Jerusalem. In another life. In another world, one where none of the mocking people who had condemned them were even still around to talk. At peace, at last.

"Yeah... it's me...I'm here...Of course I am..." John laughed, ruffling his hair.

"My brother...John." Sherlock smiled, knowing he was forgiven.

John laughed, "Do you remember how you basically saved all of our lives? NOBODY would have survived the occupation of the mercenaries in London if it wasn't for you..."

"Still a bit foggy on that one...All I remember is that you saved me..."

John laughs, "Well, of course!...Of course ,I did!" he laughed, as if it would have been absurd to not have.

"And you've been...looking after me too..."

"The other doctor's would have smothered you with a pillow by now..." John complained, and he and Sherlock burst into laughter, and into silent tears.

Everybody else smiled, at how it seemed that the world stopped around the two of them. How they seemed to be alone, as John reached up, muttering, "Come here..." and hugged him hard and close.

"Jerusalem..." Sherlock said at last.

"Yes, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, staring off into the East Wind.

"Looks like the East Wind has finally lead us all Home. To stay and start again."


End file.
